Leave Me Alone
by P.L. Wynter
Summary: When Dean’s nose started to bleed, Sam knew something was wrong. When he pointed a gun at Sam’s face, he knew he was in trouble. Oneshot. Rated M for language.


**Author's Note: **This was written for a challenge in the forum, "Supernatural FanFiction Challenges" found right here on this website. The challenge was, "What if it were Dean who were first possessed by Dr. Ellicott at Roosevelt Asylum." This is my take on that question. It's going to be a Oneshot, so don't expect any more chapters. This story is actually inspired by the song, "Since You've Been Gone" by Theory of a Deadman (don't knock them, it's a great song!) So it might be a good follow up if you go and look up the lyrics afterwards. It's a beautiful song. Okay, on with the story.

Leave Me Alone

When Dean's nose started to bleed, Sam knew something was wrong. When he pointed a gun at Sam's face, he knew he was in trouble.

The Roosevelt Asylum wasn't turning out to be one of the most pleasant experiences in Sam Winchester's life. The prospect of a mad doctor running around messing with people's heads didn't really appeal to Sam. Not in the slightest. But it was a job, and here they were, Dad's minions ready for action. Except this time, instead of searching out the action they thought they were ready for, the action had come to them, or at least to Dean. Sam could tell by the way Dean's cold eyes were staring at him, haunted and raw, and Sam knew that his brother wasn't alone inside his head.

It had started out okay. They'd made progress, saved a couple of kids, and managed to get some information from a very freaky looking ghostie. Their next course of action was to make sure the kids got out okay. And that's when his brother had made his first mistake. He'd said it like it was the most logical idea in the world, like there was no other way it could be done, like he was certain that it would be the safest route. "Sam's going to lead you out of here." The warning bells should have gone off then. They should have deafened Sam's ears, should have sounded so loud that Sam couldn't hear the rest of what his brother was saying. But, someone must have forgotten to check the batteries, because the warning bells were silent. They remained silent while Sam lead the teenagers towards the door. They made not a peep when that door turned out to be locked. And they chose not to sound when Sam got the phone call, that desperate, broken phone call from his brother. His brother was in trouble.

It had been so obvious, once Sam stopped to think about it. He should have known that it wasn't Dean on the phone. The last thing his brother would do while he was being ambushed by ghosts would be to call his little brother into the fray. No, he would have shot the hell out of them until he was out of ammo. Then he would have run until he was out of steam. And he would have fought until he was out of time. Maybe, and that is a big maybe, he would have called if he had managed to lose them, managed to outrun them. But never when he was still fighting with them. Sam should have known.

But sometimes, worry for a loved one can often cloud a person's judgment. And it was a cloudy day inside of Sam's head. He wasn't thinking, not clearly at least, or he would have sensed something was amiss when he reached the basement, rock salt loaded shotgun in hand, and had found his brother sitting calmly on a table, the psycho doctor's journal closed on his lap. Dean hadn't been going to the basement. Sam should have realized this. But relief for knowing his brother was safe had made the cloudy day darker.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"I got your call."

"What call?"

And the clouds started to clear. A few rays of that seemingly logical brain of Sam's had started to shine through. It had started to charge those broken warning bells inside of Sam's head. And those warning bells had started to vibrate.

"You found his journal?"

"Yeah."

"What does it say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"That's what I said."

"It can't say nothing. There has to be something in there that can help us."

"Do you always have to question what I tell you?"

And that's when the warning bells had really kicked in. It hadn't been the words so much, because Sam knew that his brother was one for dry humor, but it had been his tone. A real tone. Not one fluffed up with teasing. Not one dripping with sarcasm. No, this tone had been real, truthful, straightforward. It was an honest question and the fact that it was coming from his brother's mouth sent that problem solving mind of Sam's into overdrive. There were holes still in the puzzle, but Sam was beginning to see the picture.

"All I'm saying is that maybe you missed something."

"I didn't."

"Dean, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, Sam. I'm just sick of you always questioning what I have to say. I've been doing this for a hell of a lot longer than you have."

"Dean…"

"You don't believe me? Then read it your goddamn self."

And Dean had chucked the journal at him. Not a toss, not a quick throw. An upheaval of strength and anger condensed into one flick of the arm, one hate filled movement. Sam had turned and let the journal hit him in the arm harmlessly. He hadn't even glanced at it, hadn't even registered the inevitable bruise that would form there, hadn't even heard the resounding sound of the journal falling to the floor, nor the following dense silence. He had been glaring at his brother, staring hard into those pale eyes of his that seemed so much darker now. And then the blood had come. The small trickle of crimson revelation that slipped from Dean's nose as his brother sat and stared at Sam with such a ferocity that he barely recognized him. The warning bells had rung themselves hoarse.

"I knew it. Dr. Ellicott did something to you."

"He's helped me see things clearly."

"Dean, he's clouding your mind. He's messing with your head."

"No. My head's fine. It's yours that's fucked up."

"Dean, come on. Let's just find Ellicott's bones and this will all be over."

"I don't want it to be over. I'm just getting started."

Dean had risen to his feet. Sam had watched him take off his jacket. He'd seen the muscles on his brother's arms flex, saw him roll his neck, watched his fingers curl into fists. The hunter was out. Someone had unlocked his cage. Bare knuckled and ready for a fight. But Sam wasn't going to do this. He wasn't going to fight his brother, the brother that had saved him from the fire, that had lent his comfort when the nightmares came, that had been the buffer of his childhood, that was now looking at him with such malcontent that it made Sam's stomach hurt.

"I'm not going to fight you."

"You don't have a choice."

"Dean, don't do this."

"Why? Are you scared? Are you going to cry?"

"Don't make me do this."

"You never could beat me."

The lunge had been unexpected. The loss of breath as his brother's fist had socked him in the gut had been unwelcome. The hand that greeted Sam's cheek had been unrestrained. Sam's head had jerked to the side, the coppery taste of blood had tickled his mouth. Another punch to the face had sent Sam falling backwards, falling into the wall. It had crumbled beneath him and Sam felt like he'd been falling forever before he hit the floor. The pain was slow coming, but only because it was fighting a battle with the pain that was already inside of Sam, the pain that was quickly growing with the realization that he would have to fight his brother, he would have to win against his brother, he would have to, by any means necessary if he wanted to save his own life, both their lives.

"Come on you ungrateful little shit. I know you want to hit me. I know you want to wipe this smug grin off my face."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Do you think you can? Do you think you'd actually be able to land one punch against me? You're weak. You always have been."

"Dean, please…"

"_Dean please!_ What's the matter, Sammy? You're suddenly not so tough when big brother's not there to hold your hand."

"You don't mean any of this. Dr. Ellicott is…"

"Dr. Ellicott isn't doing a thing!"

And now, Sam was staring at the barrel of the gun pointed at his face. The gun that his own brother had drawn on him. The gun that now shook in sync with the hand holding it, the hand full of such rage and anger and hatred that twenty years of trained steadiness could not overcome it. And the sight had Sam holding out his hands, had him climbing slowly to his feet, had him ignoring the blood dripping down his chin and the throbbing beneath his left eye. It had him staring again into the eyes of his brother, looking for any sign that Dean Winchester, the brother he knew would never let him get hurt, was still in there. He thought he could see him, trapped behind the stranger staring back at him.

"Do you know how many times I've had to save your ass? Do you know how many times I've had to compensate for your fucking weakness? And not once did I get a thank you."

"You know I'd return the favor."

"The favor? Oh so now I'm pulling your ass out of fires as a favor? What, are you going to bake me a batch of cookies to show your appreciation? Are you going to send me a pink flowery card in the mail? That's what _normal_ people do, isn't it? Repay kindness with fucking cookies and cards! You were normal for a while, is that what you did?"

"Dean…"

"I don't do things that way! Do you know why I don't? Do you know why I don't bother with cookies and birthday cards? Because when I was four years old any hopes I had of being normal were fucking demolished when I carried your ungrateful ass out of our burning house! But you don't care about things like that, do you? The only things you care about is yourself and your normal life. The only thing you care about are white picket fences and nine to five jobs."

"I care about _you,_ Dean."

"No you don't!"

And the gun shook so violently that Sam could almost hear the gunshot, could almost feel the bullet rip through his head, could almost see the floor coming to greet him as he was killed at the hands of his brother. He could almost see his own death, could almost taste the sulfur smell in the air. He had to stop it. He wouldn't go out like this, and he wouldn't let his brother be the one to make him go out like this. He had to do something. And so he did.

Sam struck out like a snake, one hand grabbing the pressure point beneath Dean's arm, the other grabbing hold of the wrist that was holding the gun so close to Sam's face. He twisted, with all his might, with all his heart, with everything he had, he twisted. And for a moment, he thought he had him. He thought at last, after all these years, he had his brother beat. But, as much as Sam wanted to believe it wasn't Dean saying all these things, as much as he wanted to believe his brother was somewhere in there fighting to break free, it didn't change the fact that this was still Dean Winchester, and still the expert hunter he'd always been.

His brother fought back with no restraint. He swung his free arm around and effectively hit Sam in the throat. Sam gagged and went down quickly, the pain unbelievable. He felt his brother grab his wrist in a crushing grip, felt him yank it behind his back, felt him press a knee into the small of his back. He heard his brother yelling, though it sound more like controlled, emotionless sobs. Sam coughed, trying to get his throat to open back up, to get the spots out of his vision. He felt the gun press into the back of his head and knew it was over. He knew this was the end, that Dean had had enough and any second now, he would pull the trigger and Sam wouldn't have to feel this pain anymore. But his brother surprised him.

"If you had cared, you would have stayed. You wouldn't have left me. I hated you. The day you walked out that door I hated you."

The words stung.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not. You loved every minute of it. Your normal life. It's what you always wanted. More than our fucked up life, right? Our life wasn't good enough for you. Dad wasn't good enough for you. I…I wasn't good enough for you. That's why you left. You were everything to me, Sam. You were all I had and then you up and leave?"

"It was wrong of me…"

"No it wasn't. You had every right. It's your life, you did what you wanted, you didn't let anyone else choose how you were supposed to live it. You were always too smart for me, Sam. You always new what you wanted. And do you know what's worse? I tried to outdo you. I tried to be the better son, I wanted to be the good one. But no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough. Even when you left, Dad wouldn't admit it but he was proud of you. I was the better hunter, you were the better son. You were always the favorite. You always have been, to everyone. To Dad, to Mom, to me. I tried so hard to change that, to make myself exactly what Dad wanted me to be. But now I don't know how to change back. I don't know how to turn it off like you do. I don't know how to walk away. And I hate you for that. I hate that you can leave and I'm left with a life that no one wants anymore."

"Dean, I love you. Dad loves you. I can help you. But you have to let me get rid of this doctor. This will go away if…"

"I don't want your help. I don't want to love you anymore. I'm done with people leaving me. I'm done waiting for you to need me. I won't do this anymore. I won't let you leave me again. I won't let you leave me alone."

"Dean, no."

And now, Sam's logical brain is left standing out in the cold. His warning bells are starting to rust. His years of training, his common sense, and his vision of how life should be have all clocked out for the weekend. And Sam is left with just a heart that is trying to hold itself together. A heart that is realizing just how much of itself is dedicated to the brother holding the gun to the back of his head. A heart that is hurt by the words, but is also taking in the deep love that is behind the anger being flung his way.

As the gun leaves the back of his head and knee that is pressed into his back is suddenly gone, Sam pushed himself up and stands, turning to face his brother, shocked to see the emotional change that has taken over Dean's face. What once was angry, was filled with bloodlust and hatred and fire, was now a crumbling statue of the man that Sam had known as his brother. The tears on those cheeks were foreign, intruding. The pain in those eyes was horrifying. And the look on that face was new. A shiny new look that had never been pulled out before, never been test driven, never been allowed to leave the cage it had been locked behind. And Sam knew, without a doubt, the trigger on that gun in Dean's hands was going to be pulled. This time, there was no question. It was inevitable.

Sam would have accepted death. He would have forgiven his brother for killing him, forgiven all the harsh words that had been said. Because once Sam looked pass the anger, he could see the undying, unfaltering, unchanging love that was powering every emotion Dean had in his body. A love that had always been there. A love that would always be there. A love that was solely Sam's. Dean had no one else but Sam. And Sam accepted that love. Just as he would have accepted death.

But only if it was his.

What Dean had in mind to do was unacceptable. Sam realized this when, instead of aiming the gun at Sam's forehead, instead of screaming out in pain and killed his own brother, he turned the gun on himself. And Sam felt fear as he'd never felt it before. It was so powerful, so fueling, that Sam found himself moving before it even registered in that logical brain of his that his body was doing anything at all.

The gap between the brothers was closed quickly as Sam leapt for the gun, knocking it back as the trigger was pulled and a shot rang out. It was deafening, shocking, and utterly comforting to hear as the bullet ricocheted off the wall next to them instead of the skull of his brother. Sam felt the body beneath him squirm and fight to regain control, but Sam was beyond allowing Dean to win this time. No, this fight, just this one, Sam was going to win. Because there was no other option. There was no other outcome. Sam would win. He had to.

And Sam wrapped his hands around the gun and lifted it high above him before bringing it down forcefully onto Dean's temple. He realized that his was the first victory he'd ever had over his brother. What better battle to win than the one to save his brother's life? He didn't need praise, he didn't need a parade of honor, he didn't need a medal or a fucking plaque to hang on his wall. The trophy was now laying limply beneath him. Sweet victory.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

He half expected Dean to answer.

The bones were easy to find. Even easier to soak in lighter fluid. The lighter in his hands would end this all. It would put things back to normal. But Sam knew that wasn't true. The unconscious brother that lay but a few feet from his was proof of that. Whatever relationship Sam thought they had wasn't true anymore. He didn't know if Dean would remember this, if he could hear himself saying the things he said, but that didn't matter, because Sam would. And now that he knew what was inside of his brother, what made him do the things he did, what made him sneak outside into the Impala at night and cry without wanting to be seen, he wasn't going to let it go on any longer. He wasn't going to let Dean's main anger in life be with their brotherhood. Because that anger ran side by side with the ungodly amount of love and necessity he had for Sam.

And when Sam saw the manifestation of Dr. Ellicott appear next to him, arms outstretched, ready to get inside Sam's head, he didn't even turn to look at him. He didn't fear him. He didn't acknowledge him until he'd thrown the lighter onto the bones and watched the flames burn away the doctor and his power he held over Dean. As Sam finally turned to watch the doctor fall away into ash and heard his brother groan from where he lay waking up, Sam glared into the horrified eyes of Dr. Ellicott and thought of the most powerful words he could every say. Words that he now had to lock away and keep hidden and make sure that he would never utter to his brother. The words that would bring the most hurt, the most pain, the most anguish. The words that could destroy a life in just four simple syllables. And he spat them at the doctor.

"Leave me alone."


End file.
